


all hours are midnight now.

by dancinginthisworldalone



Category: The Frighteners (1996)
Genre: (to lovers?? god i hope), Enemies to Friends, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Non-Linear Narrative, a fix-it fic for milton because he’s a doodoo head but didn’t really deserve to die, reader is frank bannister's sister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26913661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinginthisworldalone/pseuds/dancinginthisworldalone
Summary: Milton understands, at the back of his mind, that Patricia Bradley had killed him.He didn’t stay dead, is the thing.
Relationships: Frank Bannister & Reader, Lucy Lynskey & Reader, Milton Dammers/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. this fear's got a hold on me

**i.  
** **night of**

_ There are snapshots, like fragments of a dream, that played behind his closed eyelids  _ – 

_ He was on the floor, and a profile of a woman caught his peripheral. Milton lifted his head to get a better look and winced at the pain that shot through him- there's a dull thrumming at the base of his skull; someone had knocked him out. _

_ No, not just someone  _ – 

_ He had Frank Bannister in his hands; the criminal had his hands up, begging him not to uncap the urn, a product of Bannister's delusion, clearly, but Milton had him, if only  _ – 

_ If it weren't for you  _ – 

_ The woman standing a few feet ahead wasn't the Bannister girl; this woman had long, greying hair. The hem of her dress is swaying on the wind, and there's a manic look on her face that stirs something inside Milton. She's saying something, but there's a faint ringing in his ears, and he can barely hear her  _ – 

_ He sees that there's a shotgun in her hands- His heart quickens for a second, but the weapon isn't aimed at him. Milton's knees trembled as he uneasily got to his feet, reaching inside his coat for his gun  _ – 

_ His gun is missing  _ – 

_ No, not missing, that would imply he doesn't know where it is. He knows it landed on the first floor after a boot-clad foot kicked it away earlier. _

_ The woman with the gun laughed again, but she wasn't looking at him; she doesn't even know he's there. She's focused on whoever is inside that room... the chapel? And so, Milton races towards her- wrestles the gun from her hands, and the woman lets out a blood-curdling shriek as she fought back, and then  _ – 

_ He is back on the floor, and she's straddling him and choking him with the shotgun, and he hears the words,  _ "We got ourselves a 'Fed, Johnny!"  _ between her hysterical giggles. He only has the faintest idea of who this Johnny could be because the way she laughs reminds him of his previous cases- an insidious, ringing sound that brings up flashes of candlelight, writhing bodies, bloodstains, limbs, and various sigils and symbols; laughter that chipped away at his soul piece by piece and forever tainting what's left of it. _

_ But he's been through worse and more or less made it out, hasn't he? _

_ Milton tried to push her off him, but the woman shifted her weight to her arms, pushing her gun down to his throat harder. Darkness started to creep in on the edges of his already blurry sight as his grip on her wrists loosens. _

_ Before he lost consciousness for the second time that evening, he heard someone  _ –  _ a familiar voice- cry out, "Choke on this, crazy bitch!" before the weight of Patricia Bradley gets tackled off of him. _

_ Finally, he surrenders to the darkness. _

**ii.  
** **night before, 11:37 pm**

The Fairwater Police Station remained unchanged for the past five years that you've lived there. You've avoided this part of town, as being just near the building is enough to stir up memories you'd rather suppress. 

But the call you received from Sheriff Perry left no room for argument:

"So, what if Frank scammed a few hundred bucks from some idiot? It's not as if he killed someone," You said, rolling your eyes as you nestled the phone between your cheek and the crook of your shoulder as you moved around your apartment. You contemplated making the dirty dishes on your sink  _ Tomorrow Afternoon You _ ’s problem.  _ Evening Yo _ u is tired since the diner was surprisingly busy.

People were driving to Fairwater for some new exhibit, which was odd. Not that you care. You’re just there for the tips.

Sheriff Perry took an eerily long time to reply.

“Spit it out, Sheriff,” You whined; you’re sleepy and your feet hurt, and your back is making you feel older than you are.

But that was nothing compared to the wave of nausea as you registered what he said. 

_ Dead _ – 

_ Someone is dead, and Frank might have  _ – 

_ No  _ – 

You didn’t know when you put the phone down, or if you ever did. It seems as though you were moving on autopilot as you rummaged through your apartment for a relatively clean shirt and a pair of jeans, all the while pushing down the feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach. He could be a total asshole sometimes, sure. 

But you know Frank didn’t – would never kill anyone.

"What happened? Where's Frank?" You asked the deputy assigned to the front desk. 

The jerk barely spares you a look before returning to his crossword puzzle. "They're about to bring him in," He shrugged.

"Wait… bring him in? He's arrested? Please, tell me what happened!"

"Bannister, just go inside and ask Walt,"

You grit your teeth at – the letters on his badge spelled  _ Tommy _ . Your knuckles itched to hit him, but it's not a good idea to assault an officer on the same night your brother is being hunted for allegedly killing someone, is it? Fuming, you made your way to Sheriff Perry's office –

Only to be shoved out of the way by someone in a black coat who was rushing towards a dark room across the sheriff's office.

You almost stumbled, if not for Walter Perry grabbing hold of your arm.

"Watch it asshole!” You called out, more annoyed than angry and even more confused. Your eyes tried to follow in the direction where the strange man ran off to, but you could barely make him out against the darkness of the unlit station pantry. You tried not to grimace as you hear the muffled echoes of his retching.

"Hello, (Y/N)." The Sheriff’s greeting was closer to a sigh.

"What's going on, Sheriff? Where’s Frank – what happened?"

He puts a hand up, prompting you to stop. “I know this is crazy, (Y/N). But why don't you sit inside for a second, and we'll be right with you, okay?" He was talking to you like he was trying to calm down a toddler in the middle of a tantrum, and you half-expected him to pat the top of your head before he makes a beeline to the pantry.

You lingered just outside his office for a moment, trying to get a better look at whoever pushed you but couldn't see anything past the Sheriff's back. Deciding not to care anymore, you walked inside his office and were surprised to see a woman with curly, brown hair, looking just as irritated as you are, sitting on one of the chairs.

She's beautiful; doe-eyed, a heart-shaped face with slightly flustered cheeks. She's wearing a green, double-breasted blouse that perfectly contrasts with the brown of her hair and brings out the color of her eyes. You tried to look for any golden bands on her finger, but her hands were hidden away, wrapped around her waist.

"Uh… hi," You greeted, giving an awkward little wave as you leaned on the door.

She may be pretty, but there’s no way you’re gonna sit next to her. What if she’s to that guy they said Frank might have killed? You’d rather not be attacked by some grieving daughter or widow.

"You're Frank's sister," It wasn't a question.

It’s not like you could lie about your identity. "Um, yes. (Y/N) Bannister. Sorry, h-have we met?"

"I'm Lucy Lynskey," She answers. "I was having dinner with Frank, and he told me about you. He was – he helped me get in touch with my husband,"

"I'm sorry about your husband,” You said, finally taking up the empty chair beside her now that you know you’re not in any danger. “But Mrs. um… Lynskey, if you're like, looking for a refund, I don't really…”

"No, that's not – ,” She protests, but her face softened, replaced by a thoughtful expression. "So, you don't believe him? I thought you worked with him."

You didn’t immediately reply, forcing down a surge of irritation. You wondered if you’re just tired, or if there really was a trace of something… accusatory in her tone. Lucy didn’t seem like a bad person, though. You sigh, barely cutting through the ambient whirring of the fan inside the Sheriff’s office.

“Work _ ed _ . As in past tense,” You finally said. “And how could I not believe him? He showed up at my place and five minutes later it’s like I’m in the Poltergeist,” A light chuckle escapes you. “Besides, he’s my brother.”

“Poltergeist? What happened?”

“Eh, you know, the usual… your bed floats, your drawers slam open and close…”

“T-that happened to us! To our house, a few days ago!” She cried.

You winced inwardly. “Uh, yeah, that’s… that’s a scam, Lucy. It’s staged,”

"Frank told me things that only Ray could have known," Lucy argues, meeting your eyes.

“How much did he charge you for eliminating emanations or, getting rid of  _ spontaneous recurrent psychokinesis?” _ You grinned.

“He said he won’t charge us anything if that made us even with the lawn,”

“Oh, my god, your husband is the lawn guy!” You couldn’t help but laugh, but then, you remembered what happened to Lucy’s husband.. “Shit! I’m sorry, I wasn't thinking, I – ”

“Lawn guy?” Lucy asked in a wry tone.

“Yeah,” You said, stretching the e- sound. “Something about him being really into his gnomes and stuff. I’m sorry, Again.”

“It’s alright. Ray is –  _ was  _ really into his lawn,” Her shoulders sagged a little. “But Frank said he wouldn’t charge me for talking to Ray in the restaurant.”

“A  _ free  _ seance? In a restaurant?” You arched a brow. “Are we talking about the same Frank Bannister that scammed you out of paying for damages?”

It was Lucy’s turn to sigh. “I know you’re trying to be funny, but your brother is a good man. He even paid for dinner,” She faltered, then, added – with her nose wrinkling slightly, “Well, he offered. But he ended up running even before the appetizers were served.”

“Huh, that actually sounds like him,” You said. “What… what happened? Perry’s not giving me shit. And you were in Excalibur with him,”

"I'm not sure," She says honestly. "We were waiting for the wine, so, we- we were talking. A-and then Frank excused himself to the men's room, and he's taking too long... then he comes back looking like he ran a marathon, tells me it’s time to go then he just... runs outside? He was mumbling, looking for someone or something, I don't know. That's when a waiter started screaming, and it's all just..." Lucy trailed off, looking lost, shaking her head. “Frank said Ray was there and I felt his presence, (Y/N). He was there,”

Neither of you noticed that Sheriff Perry is already back in his office.

"Lucy, you're still grieving. It will be very easy for a man like Frank Barrister to take advantage," He says gently, and then, as if remembering that you were there, he grimaced, and quickly adds, "No offense, (Y/N),"

"I'm at the point of my life where I'm a hundred percent fine with my brother being called a scammer, or a con-man, or a fraud, instead of like, a killer," You flipped your wrist dismissively, trying not to feel smug as the and looked away, but you weren’t done. “Or like, a wife-carver or something,”

"Carver?" Lucy echoes, turning to you, and you watched her soft brown curls bounce as she did so. 

You and your  _ stupid  _ mouth.

"Interesting for you to bring that up, Bannister," A voice from outside the office cuts in. It was the weird-looking guy that pushed you out of the way earlier. You didn't miss the way he said your last name – practically spitting it out, as if the mere thought of it sickens him.

You lean forward to get a better look at him. But he merely keeps on partially poking his head inside the office, glaring at you each time he does. 

"What's his fucking deal?" You asked in an exaggerated stage-whisper to Lucy, who shrugged and shook her head.

"I haven't introduced you yet, sorry. (Y/N), this is Special Agent Dammers-" Sheriff announced.

"A fed?" You bleat, cutting the sheriff off. "I mean, I'm sorry about the guy in the restaurant, but the FBI? Seriously?  _ One _ guy died. It's tragic, but you know- just  _ one  _ guy,"

"That's where you're wrong, Miss Bannister," Agent Dammers interrupts, planting himself by the doorway.

He looked to be about in his mid to late forties; pale, with his ears sticking out unevenly from each side of his head.  He walks with his shoulders raised, making him look like he doesn’t have a neck. Really, he looked like how a grey Crayola would look if it was a person. The worst part, though, is his hairstyle choice. It was slick and shiny with gel and parted on the side. It would have been fine had it not been paired with an undercut, making the guy's hair look... infamously familiar.

"Milton, why don't you just sit down?" Sheriff Perry sighs, gesturing to his chair. 

"I'm more comfortable standing, thank you.” Milton snaps. He turned back to you, wagging a gloved finger. "It's not just tonight's death, Miss Bannister. Oh no."

You narrow your eyes at him. "If this is about Debra, I fucking swear to – ,”

"Who's Debra?" Lucy asked, frustration seeping into her voice as she looked around.

Milton lets out a small whine at her sharp tone, and you notice that he's starting to sweat despite the air conditioning. His gloved hand tightened its grip on the door frame. 

"Dr. Lynskey, please mind your tone. Miss Banner, your words, please." Perry said, one hand pressing the bridge of his nose as if he's a tired parent dealing with shitty children. "Milton, if you'll continue?"

"Mrs. Lynskey, what do you know about the events of July 3, 1990?"

Not this again. You barked out a hoarse, disbelieving laugh as you straightened up in your seat. "That was an accident. Frank majorly fucked up by driving drunk. I'm with you on that. And it's shitty, and it cost him his wife. And his job. And probably the rest of his life. But that was an accident." 

Dammers crosses his arms over his chest, and his dark, beady, eyes narrowed at you. "What about the carving that you graciously brought up, Miss Bannister?"

Your mouth snapped shut.

"Nothing? Well," Dammers sneers, taunting you.

You didn't interrupt as Dammers launched into a dramatic retelling of the events of five years ago. He wasn't wrong, per se. Frank is facing the consequences now, isn't he? Punishing himself by staying in Debra's hometown, even after her family moved away. Refusing to sell his bare-bones house, stubbornly holding onto the one thing that remained his and hers.

And wasn't that why you moved to this backwoods town? Why you dropped out of college to keep him company? To make sure he doesn’t drink his life away? To look after him?

It was a far cry from his life as a hotshot young architect but pretending to look around some idiot's house with a ticking knick-knack in your hand had been… fun. Until Magda ran that story…

"Debra Bannister had the number thirteen carved into her forehead," Dammers concludes, pacing between the Sheriff's office and the empty hallway. "Carved using a utility knife that's conveniently missing. Up to this day."

Lucy gasped. "What?"

No one, not even the local authorities were able to explain the gruesome mark left on Debra. You were suddenly twenty and even more confused and angry at no one in particular. It had to be a closed casket ceremony, and Frank wasn't even allowed inside the church. Hell, Debra's family almost didn't let you come to her funeral.

"They f-found no evidence on Frank that he did it," You shot back in the brittle tone. "No murder weapon. There's no water source nearby for him to wash his hands. There isn't even blood on him, except his. And the – ,”

"The autopsy might have said that Debra Bannister did not die directly because of the crash," Dammers interrupts. "But your brother did something to her!"

You don't want to cry, not here, especially not in front of Agent Asshat –

You  _ won't. _

You take a deep breath. You squared your shoulders.

Just then, the station phone rang.

Your head whips up to the glass window behind Dammers, watching a young, night-shift clerk answer the call. He puts the receiver down beside the phone and runs to the office, stopping by the doorway with an awkward look on his face.

"Sheriff, I patched the call to your extension. It's um… about Frank Bannister?" He said quickly, avoiding looking in your direction, before rushing back to his post.

You feel the burn of everyone's eyes on you as Sheriff Perry picked up his phone. A wide range of emotions flashed on his face. You listened to his clipped replies to the person on the other line. With a deep sigh, he puts the phone down.

"(Y/N)," something in the Sheriff's voice made your stomach lurch. "There's a report about your brother. Witnesses said he kidnapped Magda Rees-Jones."

There's an almost smug look in the way Agent Dammers suppressed a smile. "Still innocent, (Y/N)?"

The only response he got from you was a glare that would have frozen hell over.

**iii.  
night of **

There had been something heavy pressing down rhythmically on his chest, and he gasped awake. Milton Dammers had the weirdest feeling that his entire  being – his consciousness , had been disconnected from himself and then violently,  _ desperately  _ pulled back inside his body.

And it seems as though he'd only retained his ability to breathe.

He'd been in countless situations where he almost died. Milton understands, for what it's worth, that it was Patricia Bradley who finally succeeded.

He didn't stay dead, is the thing.

Milton braced himself for the worst. They'll never take him without a fight. The movement on his chest eased slightly, but the pressure is still there, still in the continuous, rhythmic tempo that he belatedly understood as CPR. That, however, does not guarantee friendly forces. He tightened his hand to a fist, and slowly, carefully, opens his eyes, and sees-

Well-

_ You. _

Not such a bad sight to wake up to, really. Even though you were the one who knocked him out and kicked away his gun in the first place.

You were kneeling over him, hands stacked and laced together on his chest. And there's an odd look on your face- there was a flash of anger – he was familiar with your anger, your fury. The concussion Milton knows he has is proof of that – but your face flickered with the faintest twinge of sadness, of… regret? – as you continued to push down on his chest, mumbling to yourself.

His hand moved up to touch your arm, and you yelped at the contact, jumping away, stumbling backward on the floor. Silver-blue moonlight streams from the holes in the roof and the walls, and from the gaps in the wooden planks that barely covered the windows. And the light hits you just right for him to get a good look at you –

Your well-worn black leather jacket has a noticeable tear in one of its lapels; there's a thick strand of hair that escaped your ponytail, and he watched it hang from your face. There is a bruise already forming on the side of your head, thanks to him, and a cut on your right cheek, which isn't his handiwork. The cut looks raw. New.

But the surprise on your face melted into a hint of a smile, along with something else that looks like relief.

"You're alive," You breathe out, with a soft, shaky laugh. "Frank!" You turned the other way and called out to your brother over your shoulder. "Javert is alive!"

He furrowed his brows at the nickname. In the distance, he hears Frank Bannister say something acknowledging his sister, but he couldn't care less about that for the moment. Usually, sudden loud sounds, especially from women, make him queasy. But there was no rolling in the pit of his stomach, at least at the moment.

"Bannister," Milton croaked, sitting up, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice, at the pain in his windpipe. At the soreness in his chest.

"How do you feel?"

Milton blinked. "I was… I was – ,”

"You  _ were _ ," You chirped your agreement as if he asked for confirmation on something as mundane as the weather. You get on your feet, and he watched idly as you began dusting off your black denim jeans. But the wooden hospital floors carried decades of dust and dirt and grime, and you cursed under your breath as your attempt at cleaning off your pants did the opposite.

But the thought lingered inside his head. 

He was dead.

_ Milton watched as you wrestled with Patricia Bradley. For a lady her age, she was putting up quite an impressive fight. But you finally rendered her unconscious with a wicked punch to the jaw. Huh. So, you are a southpaw. You hurriedly checked for her pulse, and your shoulders sagged with relief as you confirmed that she's still alive. _

_ And then you checked behind you, eyes widening in disbelief. He knew he might not look his best, having gone through the events of last night, but really, a strangled gasp was too much. _

_ “Oh, my God, Milton!” You moved, and just as he was about to offer to help you up, he looked down on his now translucent limb, and his jaw drops ever so slightly. _

_ You were still on your knees, leaning over his other, much solid body, checking for any signs of life Milton knows might not be there anymore. _

_ “What the hell is happening, Bannister?!” Milton felt the panic bubbling from the pit of his stomach. He starts moving his fingers one by one, testing them. Studying himself. He then brings a hand up to his face and yells. _

_ “Stop yelling!” You shouted back, ripping his shirt open. The tiny buttons on his shirt bounced on the floor as you mumbled to yourself about resuscitation. "D-don't follow the light, Dammers," You hissed. There's a frantic undertone in your voice. "I'll bring you back- I'll- I'll try, fuck, fuck…" _

_ And that was when you started pushing down on his chest, counting steadily under your breath. _

_ He puts a hand on his chest, an approximation on where you were pushing down, on his other body. And he realized that if he concentrates, he can feel the slightest of spasms in time with your muffled counting. _

_ Milton then noticed a bright beam in his peripheral, and when he turned, he sees a column of pure white light coming from the chapel. Something in it calls to him, compelling him to go to it. And the light feels… warm. It's gentle, like the campfires he sat in front of in his youth. Comforting. Peaceful. _

_ Who would have known that the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t so metaphorical after all? _

_ Milton suddenly finds himself… tired. So very tired of paperwork and tired of worrying whether his next assignment would be his last. The irony here wasn’t lost on him. He took a tentative step towards the broken chapel doors. He just wants to give in to… whatever this is. See for himself what is on the great beyond. To find out what’s the big goddamned deal about the afterlife that large numbers of people willingly suffer to get to taste it _

_ “Wait, please,” You sobbed. “Don’t go,” _

_ There was something so compelling in the smallness of your voice that made him pause. _

_ That made him look back – _

_ Milton sees your head against his – _

_ Your mouth against his, with one hand under his chin, to pry his mouth open, the other pinching his nostrils closed. _

_ Pulled. He's being pulled back towards you, towards himself. And the call of the light starts to grow fainter. Strangely, he feels himself flickering in and out of existence. _

"Come on," You say, holding your hand out to him, bringing him back to the present. There is an impish quirk tugging the corners of your lips as if you knew exactly what was on his mind. 

He was dead. And now he wasn't.

And he does not know how to feel about that. Unanchored, he thinks, might be an appropriate word to begin with. Milton takes your hand, feeling the calluses on your fingers. He remembered reading in your file that you had been in some little band before moving to Fairwater for Frank. 

You pull him up, and isn't that gesture somehow symbolic? You anchoring him back to life? You hoisting him back up to his feet?

Who would have thought dying makes one so terribly… sappy?

"Mil – Agent Dammers, you okay in there?" There's a strange lilt in your voice as you stepped a few feet away as he rights himself up.

He wanted to ask why you bothered to revive him when he didn't extend the same courtesy to your brother, but he didn't get the chance as Frank, supported by an equally ruffled-looking Dr. Lynskey, limped back to where the two of you are.

"Agent Dammers, Welcome back to life." Frank Bannister smiled, stopping just a few steps beside you, with a shrewd glint in his eyes. He gives Patricia Bradley's unconscious form a gentle prodding, then added, "I think we’re pretty even now, don’t you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao obvs ive never given cpr?


	2. town called malice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is from this town called malice by the jam.

******iv .  
1992**

The house in front of you was a cheerful-looking bungalow in the nicer, idyllic part of Fairwater that you haven't been to before. According to Frank’s… well…  _ friends _ , the three-bedroom house is occupied by a family with four kids. In the middle of its neatly trimmed lawn was a tall basketball ring and an adorable doghouse labeled Miley. A red ’91 Plymouth Colt was parked in the garage.

You tried not to picture the house the two of you grew up in.

You stretched your right arm over your head, with your left hand just pushing below your right elbow until you felt the satisfying  _ pop _ in your joints. You inhale sharply, taking in as much fresh, crisp air as you can, picturing how it fills your lungs. The only redeeming factor of this town seemed to be the air quality. Well, that, and the stars. LA was too bright. And its stars, as corny as it is, are all cemented to the ground.

Against the ink-black sky, your eyes traced Ursa Major.

“Ready?” Franks asks, stopping by your side. He was holding a beat-up duffel bag that contained his repurposed ghost toaster. Which wasn’t actually called a ghost toaster. Not that it matters what it’s actually called when it’s all a scam. “I think Stu and Cyrus already started the party,”

As if on cue, the distant sounds of high-pitched screaming began, buoyed by the crescendo of breaking glass.

Frank told you, a few months after you’ve settled in Fairwater, that he could see ghosts. You laughed at him for five straight minutes,  _ because how else does one respond to that _ ? But his face stayed grim – maybe  _ even a little hurt _ , as your laughter slowly dissolved into contained chuckles –

You certainly weren’t laughing when your couch floated a good couple of feet in the air with you on it.

This would be your fifth case with him.

With  _ them _ –

With Cyrus and Stuart and The Judge  _ (“He doesn’t remember his name anymore, (Y/N). He’s been dead that long.”) _ – the spectral teammates that you haven’t seen. But you can feel when one of them is nearby. There’s a low thrumming of static in the air that makes the hairs in the back of your neck and in your arms stand. The air gets noticeably cooler, even during the day.

“Can I lead this time?” You turn to him, fixing up your jacket. “I’ll make it really convincing but like, not over the top.”

Your brother gives you a flat, unimpressed stare.

“Look, all you do is move around and declare,  _ ‘Spontaneous Recurrent Psychokinesis _ . Not like it’s hard, Frank.”

“We talked about this, (Y/N) – ,”

“Dude, come on, I spent like, twenty bucks to reprint and redesign our business card – ,”

“ _ Our _ business card?”

You roll your eyes, holding up a matte-black business card that says, ‘BANNISTER & BANNISTER – PARANORMAL INVESTIGATORS’ in white print, under a semi-realistic drawing of a skull. “ _ I  _ came up with the design.  _ My _ name is  _ literally _ in here, and we stopped finding them crumpled in the trash,”

“It’s because it’s black,” Frank snorts. “And it was  _ ten _ bucks, (Y/N).”

“The other ten is my professional’s fee, I’m putting my business school knowledge on this bullshit,”

“I said  _ no _ ,” He grits out.

“Frank, you have to admit, business went up since I joined in. Besides,” You nudged him lightly on the shoulder. “Even thrift store  _ Anna Wintour _ greenlighted the ad I wrote,”

“Of course, and in the journalistic integrity of Magda Rees-Jones we trust,” He said with mock solemnity.

Prickly bastard, your brother.

“I’ll buy you tomorrow night’s dinner if you let me lead.”

“Where, that cheap diner with the watered-down coffee? Or the deli by the station?”

“Bellisimo’s,” You countered, watching as his eyebrows practically go up to his hairline. A Cheshire grin formed on your face.

You’ve been here in Fairwater for almost a year and watched your brother subsist on boxes of cereal, boxed mac and cheese, and instant noodles. He refused to accept money from you, or your parents – who reluctantly allowed you to leave college. He refused to leave his house.

“Come on, Franklin… a nice steak in exchange for letting me run around this nice family home, censoring myself by substituting swear words with child-friendly expletives, and sprouting scientifically inaccurate terminologies?”

“I’m  _ not _ a dog, (Y/N),” Frank says pointedly. And then, “I get rib-eye, or the deal is off,”

“As if I’d get you anything else, dummy.”

Your first night as the  _ co _ -lead investigator began with a resigned laugh from your brother.

**v.  
the day of – 4:30 am**

You huffed out a sigh as a female deputy leads you back inside the Sheriff's office. She deliberately ignored your question if the lukewarm Styrofoam cup she handed you was instant coffee. She also didn't seem to hear your request to have the door closed. Despite the late hour, the station was too noisy in your sleep-deprived state, and the fluorescent light wasn't helping the pounding in your temple.

_ None _ of this was helping the pounding in your temple.

You risked lifting the cup to your mouth – and gagged as soon as you took a sip because it sure as hell was instant coffee. It puzzled you to no end how something could taste so bland yet so sugary at the same time. But it doesn't look like you could just walk out of the station to get a decent cup. Keeping you here is probably some sort of illegal detention.

It was quarter to two when you and Dr. Lynskey were finally asked to provide each of your statements. Which, on your part, doesn't really make sense since you weren't even with Frank when his alleged crimes happened. You haven't even seen him for two days. 

Hell, you were already in the station when the call about him kidnapping Magda Rees-Jones came in.

You thought back to the article she allowed to be published in the Fairwater Gazette two years ago, on the anniversary of The Accident. It was a suggestive piece published under an obvious pseudonym that implied you and Frank were a little  _ too _ close. Both you and your brother filed a complaint, threatening to sue the Gazette. The paper issued a retraction the following day, but the damage had been done. And, as much as you tried to convince Frank to take the complaint to court, he refused.

In an unrelated event that took place five months later, someone broke into Magda Rees-Jones’ house, smashed her home computer, and stole a collector’s item Hammond typewriter, and let out the air in all her tires. Her trip to the Bahamas was cut short, and from conversations, you overheard from her employees, it seems that she was taking her anger out on them.

The culprit was never caught, and her shrill, shrieking voice rang inside Fairwater Police Station for months.

As much as she was a bitch who seemed to be out for your blood, between you and Frank,  _ he _ wouldn’t be the one to kill her.

You were alone inside the cramped office, at the very least. You sat down on the same chair you occupied earlier. It was quieter, and the mechanical whirr of the fan behind the sheriff’s desk is a welcome alternative from awkward small talk and the  _ tap _ - _ tap _ - _ tapping _ of keyboards outside. Agent Asshat's thankfully absent from the room. He probably fucked off to the records room or something. Not that you care. It's just nice not to be glared at (by him) or be looked at with pity (by Dr. Lynskey or the Sheriff) for a few minutes.

Dr. Lynskey (you learned, a little later, that Lucy is a doctor at Fairwater Medical) had been your sole source of warmth. She began rubbing circles on your back after the Sheriff broke the news about Miss Rees-Jones. If you were honest, it felt a bit weird for the recently widowed doctor to be the one consoling you.

Aside from you, she's probably the only other person who's having a terrible day. And it made you want to ask her why you're the one being comforted. But the question dissolved in your throat as you noticed her red-rimmed eyes. She had to bury her husband a few days before their anniversary.

Maybe the good doctor needs the distraction, and you were more than okay with providing that to her.

Sheriff Perry waddled inside his office and leaned against his desk, just as you drained the disgusting, murky concoction they had the nerve to call coffee.

"Hello, (Y/N), how are you holding up?"

"My brother might have finally cracked and begun attacking people," You chuckled humorlessly. "So, I don't know, Walt. How do  _ you _ think  _ I'm _ holding up?"

It wasn't fair to take out your frustrations on Sheriff Perry, as amusing as it was to watch him squirm and shift uneasily, causing the feet of his desk to drag against the tiled floor. It emits a short, high-pitched squeak that felt like something was being drilled in your jaw.

"(Y/N), I'm sorry – ,”

He had been the last wall of defense that stood between you and being grilled by Agent Asshat. The Sheriff was probably trying to cover his ass because Dr. Lynskey commented that  _ you _ could press charges against the Fairwater Police if they let you be questioned without proper representation. While you know jack-shit about police protocols, you know that being interrogated by a federal agent isn't right, since you're not even a suspect. Besides, you don’t have any connection with the man who died of a heart attack in that restaurant's men's room.

You're usually not this much of a jerk. Guilt (and probably that gross coffee) twists in your stomach, and you relent. "No, Sheriff. I'm sorry. That... that wasn't fair. I'm just so..."

"It's alright (Y/N). I understand."

You fall silent for a moment. 

Frank is still out there. Hopefully unhurt. And you wondered if he dropped by your place. He has a spare key, but your moldy apartment could be the first place the cops might check first, if not Frank's own house. Does he know you're at the station? Does he know how worried you are?

Maybe you should have insisted more on talking to Magda when Frank called you about the headline earlier that morning. Maybe you could have marched up to her office instead, made her retract the article. Maybe you could have thrown in a good punch or ripped off that tacky,  _ Anna Wintour _ by Party City wig she has on. Maybe it wouldn't have been like this.

Finally, unable to handle the uncomfortable stretch of silence anymore, you asked, "Is there any update yet? About… about him or… or Magda? Have they found anything?"

"My men are still out there," Sheriff Perry shakes his head, looking pained. "They haven't radioed anything new yet,"

"That Volvo is held together by sheer willpower and duct tape. How far could he have gone?"

"Isn't that the question of the year, Miss Bannister," A familiar, nasally voice interrupts, causing irritation to flare from the top of your head down to the nape of your neck.

Agent Asshat stalks into the room, and you noted the authoritative rigidity in his shoulders that wasn't there earlier. He jerked his head meaningfully at the Sheriff.

Your heartbeat skipped, fearing that he's finally gonna interrogate you. You swallowed a lump in your throat, ready to start yelling if Walter Perry abandons you. Your plan B is to just start yelling. Dr. Lynskey whispered something about Agent Asshat getting freaked out by the sound of screaming women, and you weren't afraid to test how freaked out you could get him.

But while Sheriff Perry exhaled heavily as he moved off of his own desk, he reached behind it for a yellowed monobloc, which he sets a few feet from you, and proceeded to sit on it. You shot him a grateful look, which he acknowledged with a nod.

Both you and Sheriff Perry watch Agent Whatshisname shed the thick, dark wool coat he wore, piling it in a heap on top of the Sheriff's desk, and adjust the leather gloves in his hands, which he didn't take off. He looks… stiff. Rigid. Like he's all wound up and would explode any minute.

Underneath his heavy-looking coat, Dammers had on a gray suit that hanged loosely in odd places. It wasn't shabby per se, but it could have used some ironing. Or a re-fit. TV undoubtedly influenced your expectations about how FBI people  _ should _ look like. Couldn’t they have sent someone that looks like Dale Cooper? Hell, if it’s someone whose field focuses more on weird phenomena, they should have sent in someone in the same range as Dana Scully. Maybe then, you’d be more willing to be questioned by them in a small, private room…

A small part of your brain suggested that  _ He _ would have looked better if it weren’t for the hair.

You shifted in your chair, fixing your posture, wondering very much where the hell did that thought come from.

"Can I go now?" Normally, you don’t have a problem with sounding bored. After all, you’ve been stuck in this backwoods town for almost six years. But you’re trying to clear your head from strange unwanted thoughts

"I haven't caught your brother yet, have I, Miss Bannister?"

"Well, why don't you go out there and chase him yourself,  _ Javert _ ?" You motioned at the door with the hand that still holds the empty Styrofoam cup.

Dammers crosses his arms over his chest, and his dark, beady eyes narrowed at you. "Are you saying that Frank Bannister  _ needs  _ to be caught?"

"I'm  _ saying _ that I already gave a statement and that I'm  _ not saying _ anymore until I have a lawyer,"

"And do you have a lawyer, Miss Bannister?" He sneers. "I doubt that working with your brother's scams isn't as lucrative as it should be, especially with the stories Magda Rees-Jones published. Tell me, is that why Frank kidnapped her? For ransom? To For ransom? For money to pay off his house?"

You blinked. "What do you mean to pay off his – that's – it's already paid!"

"Not according to his bank." Javert sneered. "He owes them $15,000, Miss Bannister."

"What?"

"His house will be – "

"I know what that means, okay?” You hissed angrily.

A phone rang from outside the tiny office, but you were too preoccupied to care. 

Financial problems. Frank was having financial problems, and he didn't tell you.

"I didn't know," You say again, quietly this time, frowning at the bottom of your cup. "Frank called me this morning. He said he might have a few cases, but Magda fucked that up by putting him on the front page."

"Your brother lost victims because of Miss Rees-Jones' story?"

" _ Customers _ ," You correct, turning your gaze at Dammers. "He lost  _ potential _ customers because of her. Usually, he leaves them his card, they call him, he does his thing, and he gets paid for it."

"And what does your brother do, exactly?"

"He expels ghosts from their homes." You shrug. "Well, not their homes – the ghosts – out of people's homes. Houses."

His eyebrows fly up. "Ghosts?"

"Or poltergeists. Whatever you wanna call them. I mean, you've read the headline." You roll your eyes. "But he doesn't harass the families. He's not as pushy as they write him out to be."

"And Miss Rees-Jones has done this before?"

"I don’t know, every few months?”

"And there's the motive," Dammers announced triumphantly, stressing every word. "Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Bannister."

"What?" Your voice sounded hollow as you tried to make sense of when and how he jumped from A to B down to fucking Z.

"This is Frank Bannister finally snapping!"

"What do you mean, ‘snapping’?" Panic coils inside you as you realized Sheriff Perry wasn't in the office anymore. He had gotten up to answer the phone, as most of his troops were out looking for Frank. "Thi- this is unfair! You set me up!"

You got to your feet, and the sudden movement made Dammers take a step backward, his back colliding against the door. His still-gloved hands go up towards his torso like he's readying himself for an attack. His coal-black eyes are focused on you, and the intensity is unnerving. He's studying you, waiting for your next move.

Not that you'd do anything. You're not stupid enough to hit a federal agent, for fuck's sake.

Not yet, at least. 

Sheriff Perry returns, giving both you and Dammers a deer in the headlights look. "What did you do, Milton?"

"Nothing. Miss Bannister and I were simply… talking,"

"You're an asshole," You grit out.

“So you’ve said.” Dammers retorts.

The Sheriff took a closer step towards you, placing a hand on your arm, about to ease you out of the office. Or maybe to stop you from beating up the other man. Maybe both. "Lucy's just about done (Y/N). I'll ask if she can give you a ride home."

"Have your staff print out wanted posters, Sheriff," Dammers calls out, mouth curving into a petty smirk, eyes boring into yours. "We could use the photographs Miss Rees-Jones used for her newspaper."

At this point, you are convinced that Agent Asshat's doing this to rile you up more than anything.

"Milton, the car Frank has is old. And we've got the state line covered. I don't believe he'll get very far." Sheriff Perry explained as you bristle in silence.

"I seriously doubt we will see Mr. Bannister any time soon," Dammers begins, but you tuned out the rest of what he says as Sheriff Perry gently tugged on your arm, his eyes discreetly motioning to the station's entrance. You follow his gaze, and your mouth drops.

Frank walked in, looking like a lost puppy, dressed in a red button-up shirt and a loose vest that you dimly hoped was also red because of blood, and khakis. Jesus. Who wears red  _ on _ red with khakis?

"Hi, Walt," He greets the Sheriff softly.

"Oh, my god!!" You sobbed, wrapping your arms around your brother. “Frank!”

Blood. He smelled vaguely of blood and mildew. And he looked worse up-close. He was paler than usual, and he has dried red stains under his chin. He swayed and let out a soft 'oof' as you hugged him. But you felt his hands give your back a few gentle pats before returning the hug. “(Y/N) – what… you're here?"

"T-they called me in earlier. T-they said... " You swallowed, voice thick with emotion. "Shit, Frank, what the hell happened?"

"(Y/N)," Frank blinks down at you as he pulls away, and the glazed look in his eyes disappears. "You shouldn't be here, (Y/N). I… I'm just here to…" he trails off, rubbing at his jaw. "I'm here to report that… Magda Rees-Jones' uh, body… is… lying near my car. Off Holloway road,"

You take a step back, world spinning. "Body?"

Something heavy pressed on your shoulder, and for a moment, you were alarmed that it might have been Dammers. To your relief, it was Sheriff Perry's hand that gave you a reassuring squeeze.

"Frank," Perry prodded gently. "Did you have anything to do with her death?"

Frank opened and closed his mouth a few times in an attempt to speak, but all he was able to do was let out a heavy, shuddering sigh as he stared forward blankly. That was when a pair of deputies appeared by his side, and you registered the faint click of handcuffs.

"W-wait, what's going on? Why's he being handcuffed – Frank, no, wait – !" You choked out. "What did he do? He didn't – !”

Panicking.

You are panicking. 

You feel a tightness in your chest as you try to take in air.

You are panicking because they're dragging your brother off somewhere. Your vision blurs as you blink away tears because they're saying that Frank killed people, but you know, you know he didn't, but your brother wasn't even putting up a fight.

The hand in your shoulder closed in tightly – not enough to hurt, you didn't think Sheriff Perry would hurt you, but it sends the message as clear as day.  _ Calm down _ .

The commotion didn't go unnoticed by Dr. Lynksey, who was immediately at your side.

"What's going on here? Are you arresting him?" Dr. Lynskey demands, whirling on the people around her. She takes your arm around hers, freeing you from the Sheriff's hold, and tells you, "I know a lawyer. I'll give her a call – ”

"Stop it, Lucy," Frank says in a brittle tone. "Go home. Take (Y/N) with you."

"But you haven't done anything! He hasn't done anything!" Dr. Lynskey replies, voice growing louder as she follows the officers towards a hallway that possibly leads to the holding cells.

"How do you know?" Frank asked, brows furrowed. "Do you know me? Am – Am I a nice guy, Lucy? Because I ruined my sister's life, did you know that?"

You shook your head, even more confused. "No, Frank, you didn't – what are you saying?"

"A-and that cozy little scene at the restaurant was bullshit, 'cause I was doing my job." Frank continued, avoiding your eyes. "And I don't give a damn about you. I don't give a damn about  _ anybody _ . Just look at (Y/N), Lucy. Do you think I cared when I asked her to drop out and move here to help me? Do you think I  _ care _ that her life is shit?”

You tried – and failed – not to flinch at what he said because you know what he's doing, as shitty as it is. It's his way of protecting you, of telling you to stay away, that he can handle this. But it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

"Right," You nodded, keeping your voice mild, swallowing the forming lump in your throat. "Right. You know what, Frank? Yeah, my life's shit, but at least I wasn't accused of killing my wife. Or like, two other people in one night."

Lucy's hand flies to her mouth, and you hear a small gasp from her. “(Y/N)! What's wrong with you!”

The station falls eerily silent, and it occurred to you that you might have crossed a line. And that you were shaking. You don't know where the anger is coming from or whether you were actually angry at Frank for what he said. But it coils inside you, nonetheless.

“But I can get out,” You continued. “And you can’t. And you’ll rot here. S-so, have fun or whatever.”

Frank winced. It was easier for the police to carry him off down the hall after the metaphorical knife to his jugular.

“Enjoying the show?” You lift your chin, looking at the others in the station as if challenging anyone to say something. An excuse to look anywhere but the direction Frank was dragged off to. But they either had their heads down or averted their eyes altogether. Dammers was looking at you with an odd expression. “I thought so.” You sniffed before purposely shoving past Dammers as you walked out of the station, ignoring Lucy calling out for you to wait for her.

**vi.  
the day of – 7:00 am**

Milton’s eyes were on the coroner’s reports, but his mind was on you, in general, the image of you walking out of the station, eyes shining with unshed tears…

Initially, you looked at him like he was a Barnum oddity.

Then the way you were looking at him shifted, like you were about to tear him into pieces as he relayed what your brother did to his wife to dear Mrs. Lynskey. He could see your jaw stiffen and he would not at all be surprised if you started shaking in fury.

There were reports about people supposedly being able to set fire just by looking at something, and Milton was grateful for the lead breastplate he had underneath his clothing. It was probably the reason why he hadn’t combusted yet with the way you glared at him.

Your eyes were the clearest shade he’s ever seen, and he catches the fear, the doubt, and the sadness in them, underneath the anger. In any other circumstance, he would have stepped away. He would have toned down the theatrics. But something compelled him to stare right back.

To taunt you.

He baits you, and in your anger, you fall for it.

And Milton doesn’t quite know why, and he does not understand, but there’s something clawing in his stomach – a need to get to know you somehow, outside the bounds of interrogation. He wants to know why you still drank the coffee even though you were clearly disgusted by it, why you kept on chipping at your already chipped nail polish, why you had drawn cartoon-looking dinosaurs in the toe-tip of your shoes. So, he taunts you, and your reaction towards your brother was interesting.

But despite your initial defensiveness, there  _ was _ resentment bubbling just below the surface.

He was disappointed, really, as he expected Frank to put up a little more fight. More than that, Milton hoped that this assignment would end differently. That he’d be able to bring in this suspect to trial. That maybe he’d no longer be assigned to these kinds of cases after this one gets wrapped up.

That he could get the Fairwater Madman to break and tell him, in detail, how he was able to get away from killing all those people. That Frank Bannister would reveal himself as the dangerous man that caused the deaths of twenty-eight people in five years.

But Frank Bannister had been staring dejectedly at nothing for the past half hour. Not even Sheriff Perry’s well-intentioned but otherwise useless prodding was able to get a response from him. Unfortunately, one cannot break something that’s already broken. But one can speed up the process. All Milton needs to do is to follow the emotional crumbs you scattered for him. At the very least, the paperwork will be quick.

Milton finishes the anecdote about Nina Kulagina, and something inside him stirs when he realizes that Frank has the same eyes as you.

**vii.**  
**the day of – 3:05-6:40 pm**

The late afternoon sunlight poured from the partially opened window, falling through your glossy, cherry wood vinyl floor.

You’re sprawled out on your bed, atop the covers, staring blankly at the pale, glow-in-the-dark stars taped on your ceiling. Frank installed them when you first moved here.

You’ve been willing yourself to cry, but your chest felt far too heavy yet far too hollow to do so.

Drinking didn’t help, which was odd because you’d always been a sad drunk. All it brought you was a light, liquid sting in the corner of your eyes that you impulsively swiped away with the hell of your palm, and nothing else. The taste of cheap cranberry vodka lingers in your mouth.

What Frank said still stings, but he’s sitting in jail for something that he didn’t do. And here you are, moping uselessly, unable to even shed a tear for your brother.

In the distance, you heard the bellowing of a sleeper truck. You turned to your side, facing away from the window, facing away from the half-filled suitcase you jammed with your clothes earlier, and closed your eyes. 

**-**

You shot up from the bed when you felt something wet graze your palm.

It was dark, save for the thin strands of the lamp posts outside that were able to filter through your room. You bring your palm up, holding it close to your chest as you checked if it was wet, and felt a wave of relief spread on your body, because what if that was a ‘Humans Can Lick Too’ scenario? Which doesn’t make sense, because you lived alone and you  _ don’t  _ have a dog.

It was fine until you noticed that your room is far too cold for July, even in the Pacific Northwest. But your curtains weren’t moving due to the evening breeze. The curtains weren’t moving at all.  Your breath fogs up in front of you, and you watch it inch away slowly from your lips, dissipating.

As much as most of Frank’s investigations are bullshit, he didn’t  _ technically _ lie to the people. There really were ghosts inside their homes. And sure, while you’d rather not go into details as to why and how said ghosts – well,  _ emanations _ – were able to plague their homes, you and your brother really did take out the emanations that disturb their house.

When you play the role of Lead Investigator, one of the ways you provide proof of spectral presence is to demonstrate how ghosts can affect the physical world. How the temperature will drop in one corner of their house, and you will stand there, watching your breath fog up in front of you.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Your breath only ever fogs up when there are ghosts…

_ Could it be? _

“H-hello?” You called out, pausing to strain your ear as you turned your head slowly to scan your room. “Cyrus? Stuart?”

You’ve never seen them, but the way your hair stood on end was familiar. They’re in your room.  And hopefully, the one that licked your palm was the ghost dog, which, if you were being honest, you’re not 100% sold on, because – ghost dog, what the hell, right?

You’ll need to have another talk with Frank about reminding  _ his _ friends about boundaries.

You got up from the bed and walked to the switch.

And a high-pitched scream rips itself from your throat .

Because as your room gets bathed in the white, fluorescent light, you see that there are two men –  _ two men tinged in blue _ – two men that you can absolutely  _ see-through _ – are standing by your bed. A ragged-looking bloodhound, equally as transparent as they are, is looking up at you with big, shiny, gloomy eyes.

“Oh, my God,” You were still pitchy as you backed yourself into your door, pointing at your surprise guests with a shaking finger. “It’s you –! I didn’t – how can – what the – what the fuck – how did – oh, fuck – ”

One of them is a tall, black man with a full mustache and an afro, dressed in a fringed, open chested shirt with a peace-sign necklace. The other was shorter and scrawny, wearing a pair of glasses, a gingham-patterned shirt with a bowtie, and a retro letterman jacket. Both of them looked like they had thick… sludge running down their faces. It didn’t look exactly like blood.

“Aww, she can finally see us!” Glasses chimed happily, smiling up at his ghost friend, like you weren’t trembling, white as a sheet.

“About fuckin’ time if you asked me. She’s cutting on our share, and she didn’t even believe we exist!” Afro shots back, rolling his eyes. “Should we let Frank rot in prison? Or are you gonna help us bust him out, (Y/N)?”

“Prison? What do you –,” You paused, attention following the dog –  _ ghost dog, Jesus, that’s a ghost dog he’s real oh, God _ – as it sniffed the floors and made its way to the side of your suitcase? The top of your suitcase is wide open, and it was half-filled with rumpled clothes you pulled out from your closet. Your back hits the wall as the memory – the reason why you were packing in the first place, crashes back to you like a wave to the shore. “Oh, my God – Frank!”

“Did you seriously forget?” Cyrus gapes at you. “ _ Really _ ? Your brother’s in jail, and  _ you _ forget?”

“I’m sorry, I – I didn’t…” Your hand begins to shake as a combination of shame and frustration surged inside you. Cyrus was right. How could you forget? Why did it take seeing two ghosts to remind you what happened? You’re sliding down the wall, but it doesn’t matter.

You remembered all the horrible things you said to your brother.

You remember the light in his eyes finally getting extinguished.

Tears start to leak from your eyes, and you didn’t bother wiping them. You pull your legs up and sobbed.

“Look what you did, Cyrus! She’s crying!”

You heard someone’s footsteps pad closer. Looking up, you see the ghost with the glasses sitting next to you and tried not to flinch as he tries to bring a comforting hand to your arm.

“She  _ better _ do more than crying, man. Or else she’ll be seeing Frank here with  _ us _ soon!”

Your head whips up, looking at Cyrus. “What?”

He snorted. “You really don’t know, do you? You’re what – here getting your beauty sleep while Frank’s about to be sent to the gallows!”

You scrambled to your feet, suddenly more scared than you had ever been in your life. “What do you mean the gallows?”

“They’re pinning the deaths on him, (Y/N),” Stuart answers calmly from behind you.

“Wait, I don’t understand; what do you mean  _ all _ deaths? No metaphors. Tell me what the fuck is going on.  _ Now _ .”

Cyrus regards you with a frown, arms crossed on his chest.

“He stopped believing. He don’t see us anymore,” He eventually says. There’s a somber look in his eyes as he glares on the floor.

“My hand went through him, (Y/N),” Stuart adds sadly. “He’s… he’s in a really bad place. The Judge said he saw it happen a few times before,”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, unsure how to respond to that. Wouldn’t that be good? That way he doesn’t have to keep scamming people. Maybe he can finally move on.

If he gets out.

“Look, (Y/N), there’s an odd-looking fella that said he’s just waiting for your brother to check himself out, since he’s guilty of twenty-eight murders and all, and that will be the end of it.”

You narrow your eyes. What the hell is that Dammers bastard on to? “Twenty- _ eight _ ?” You bleat.

“They’re planning to pin all of the deaths on him, kid. That’s why we got to bust him out ASAP! He needs us. He needs you,” Cyrus announces. “Now are you with us, or are you just gon’ cry here?”

“I’m with you – I just – twenty-eight? When did that happen?”

“We’ll tell you on the way,” Stuart answers. There’s a tentative smile that pulls on the corners of his lips, and he adds, almost shyly. “A-and (Y/N), it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Not now, loverboy.” Cyrus groans, holding Stuart by his collar. “Get changed in five, (Y/N). Or we’re leaving without you.”

It’s surreal, to say the least, because here you are, talking with ghosts like you’ve known them for a long time. And in a way you have, because Frank would complain to you about how much they complain. And how Cyrus and Stuart would only listen to Judge sometimes… and wait –

“There’s three of you!” You blurt out, causing both Stuart and Cyrus to pause in their tracks. “Where’s Judge? Is he outside or – it’s just… we’ve been working together and…” You trailed off as you registered the frown on their faces.

Stuart purses his lips. “Death took him.”

You blinked.

“Hooded figure with the scythe death, (Y/N).” He continues. “We lost the Judge in the museum. Frank too, really. That’s where he tried to save that writer lady.”

“Look, (Y/N),” Cyrus’s voice cuts through. “We’ll tell you all you need to know on the way. Right now, we  _ really  _ gotta go.”

You can only nod wordlessly, wondering when did this day … night? get so out of hand. You watched as they passed through your door. 

Beside your bed, the ghost dog lets out a whine.

**Author's Note:**

> lmao obvs i havent given cpr??  
> please forgive this self-indulgent thing.


End file.
